Ode To Emptiness
There was a time I’d think in rhyme
and daydream in blank verse.
O muse, you died; I’m sure I spied
you leaving in a hearse.
Methinks that I might force a try,
put signs up in the yard:
free room and board as a reward
to lure a minstrel bard.
O, whither go? A withered flow
is all you’ve left behind:
mere parlor tricks and limericks -
to heights I’m disinclined.
’Twas once I’d soar, but now no more,
seems I have crashed to earth,
so I will till and toil until
you germinate rebirth.
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